


Burn the Book to Turn the Page

by TerresDeBrume



Series: Get Back Up [10]
Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anger, Character Study, Child Abuse, Childhood, Control Issues, Daddy Issues, F/M, Gen, M/M, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-06
Updated: 2011-07-06
Packaged: 2017-10-21 02:46:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/220038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TerresDeBrume/pseuds/TerresDeBrume
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One thing people have trouble remembering, or accepting at least, is that babies’ minds in their primary days aren’t much more than any fly or frog.</p><p>Their minds are blank pages the world has to fill, one word after the other to form sentences, paragraphs, chapters, up until the very end of the book.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burn the Book to Turn the Page

One thing people have trouble remembering, or accepting at least, is that babies’ minds in their primary days aren’t much more than any fly or frog.

 

Their minds are blank pages the world has to fill, one word after the other to form sentences, paragraphs, chapters, up until the very end of the book. Sometimes the book is long and rich and stylish, other times it is short and bright and witty, and there are infinite possibilities in between the two. At the beginning though, all minds are blank, save the regular, continuous string of _fooddrinksleep_. _Poop_ is among the first words to be learnt, associated with the itch of dirty diapers, the warm discomfort of fresh excrement against soft skin, and then the terrifying thoughts of _alone, big, empty, danger, Fear_.

Charles, watching over his sister’s crib, feels these changes the way nobody –not even him- remembers living them. He feels his Raven’s mind becoming more and more complex every day, developing towards new concepts, like that day his arms became _Safe_ and his face became _feedingcleaningsafekeeping_ and then evolved into _Parent_ , and his voice –singing off key or reading poetry- ends up meaning _Sleepsafesoothednotalonelovedlovedloved_. It is a wonder to watch, not only because it is Raven slowly becoming entwined to himself as a sister-daughter-friend, but also because this is the construction of a mind, the foundations of a person, an adult, and what she is living now will have an influence on Raven for the rest of her life, will shape her in ways not even Charles will ever understand.

When he watches Raven form, Charles sees his sister, yes, but he also sees what he already knows is the only mystery of the mind he _can’t_ pierce. Maybe there will be other parts of the mind that will remain a mystery to him, but he knows he _could_ understand most of it. This, though, the way a minds forms and grows and crystallizes around little things like kisses and hugs and whispered goodnights, Charles knows he can’t understand fully, and even at age seven, he is not sure he really wants to. It’s a bit like this poem of Whitman’s Dad likes to read him, the one that speaks of stars and calculus and dissection and walking at night into a park. The ones who measure the stars are those who know more about them, but only the nightwalkers truly understand the asters’ beauty.

 

And just as the nightwalker sees the constellations and names them but doesn’t know how they came to be, Charles sees the milestones that have been forming his life and mind, but can never explain exactly what role each of them played in making him who he is as an adult.

 

 **ooooooooooo**

 

Charles’ very first memory is a conversation between Mother and Father.

 

They’re quiet, whispering, and he’s too small to understand the words in it anyways –he’s not sure what his age is: he could be three weeks but he could also be three hundreds of years for all the weight these thoughts lay on his chest. There are two trains of thoughts that oppose, one dark, cold, murky _differentinmyheaddifferentfreakscaredscaredscared_ the other burning, warm, fierce above the sluggish brownness _mysonloveinmyheadfearminelovedifferentfearloveloveLOVE_.

 

Not even himself knows this is the most ancient memory his brain kept, until he has to take meditation lessons to prevent another Bloody Sunday incident and he can watch this vestige of his own prehistory.

 

 **ooooooooooo**

 

What he thinks is his first memory at first –what he tells people when they want to know- is a slap.

 

He remembers the whip-like sound, the sharp sting of pain against his cheek and Mother’s shaking voice saying ‘I’m sorry’ and the low thrum of _whatifheknowswhatifhehurtsmedifferentfreakfearfeafear_. He’s never able to explain why he didn’t just promise Mother he would _never_ hurt her.

 

Maybe somehow he knew it was too late already.

 **ooooooooooo**

 

Then of course, comes Bloody Sunday and _Pain Fear Loss Sorrow Father Death Blood Hate Fear Father Fear Fear Father Father Father Father Dead ALONE_.

 

Charles knows he spends four weeks in bed, lost in a telepathic delirium that make him revive this day, relive Angel’s blood and brain on his face, feel Father’s mind vanishing again, feel every injury he felt that day and Father’s death again and again and again. When he wakes up, one maid is physically dead and his former Nanny and the Stable boy are in a psychiatric ward with Doctors trying to determine whether they have a chance to recover someday or not. Mother takes him to the hospital so he can _seewhatyoudidyoufreakmonsterdangerous_ and he stares for a long time at their drooling mouths and empty eyes and _voidvoidvoid_ inside their heads, body working without a soul, like a plane on autopilot. He feels the echoes of their former minds against his, thinks maybe there is a way to help them, but he’s not strong enough and the doctors tell him not to be afraid, they’re not dangerous or anything, just sick.

 

Charles doesn’t tell them they’re dead. He leaves with Mother and, though he sometimes checks on the former domestics, he never comes to the hospital again.

 

 **ooooooooooo**

 

The horror of what he did doesn’t fade, it’s more like Charles gets used to it, used to living with a low-level of terrifying constantly going on in his head. He almost comes to think it doesn’t influence him in the end.

 

Then, when he’s six that old man appears next to the school. He comes with smiles and sweets and nice white hair, polite conversation. He talks with mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters and he sounds normal, but Charles feels the weight of his mind on him every time he passes by his bench, sees images of himself naked and writhing and begging under the old man’s hands, legs spread around his cock and mouth covered with his lips and his face, his face is smiling in this man’s mind, like he should be enjoying it, like he should think this is good, but it’s not, it’s wrong, _wrongwrongwrongfearmotherpleasewrongfeardisgustwhydon’tyoucarenobodyelseknowswhaticanknowmotherpleasepleasepleasenobodyelsewillbelievemepleaselistentomeihatehimimsoscaredmotherpleaseihatehimihatehimihatehim_ and then one spring day the old man doesn’t just look at Charles walking by in his tiny shorts: he stand up and walks to him, one hand outstretched while Mother’s chaffer doesn’t look –he never looks, he doesn’t care and isn’t paid to care either- and the old man take Charles’ arm so Charles screams and screams and screams, mind and voice mingling together and he _hates_ that mind so _much_ for giving him nightmares and terrors without even doing anything it becomes really, really easy to just seize his mind like a sheet of paper and _tearriptakeapartcrushdestroydestroydestroymakeitgoaway_. The old man screams as well and Mother’s chaffer drags Charles towards the limousine and back to the Mansion.

 

Mother thinks Charles probably did it on purpose and punishes him by locking him in the Hunting Pavilion for the next two week. She doesn’t know it feels like a reward when she tells Charles he is to be home tutored until otherwise instructed.

 

 **ooooooooooo**

 

Charles is eight when Dad dies and he can finally put a name on the strange, sour taste he used to send off: that’s the taste of agony.

 

Charles wonders what it would be like not to perceive things like this, not to have tasted this sour flavor, not to have heard that last mental cry of agony before Dad’s mind flickered out of existence, more than hour before Mother woke up and screamed for help. As it is though, he heard it and was stationed by Raven’s crib mere seconds before Dad completely disappeared.

 

The whole household spends three days weeping with him until Mother forcibly drags him out of the Nursery and locks him into the Hunting Pavilion until he learns to _stop meddling with people’s heads_.

 

 **ooooooooooo**

 

Charles clings harder than ever to Raven, his mind constantly wrapped around hers to keep himself grounded, keep himself inside his own body instead of drifting from head to head like he knows he will if he’s not careful enough.

 

It’s not that he doesn’t want to be his own self or to be entirely lost to Raven, it’s just that Mother gets drunk at ever earlier hours now, and she still can’t stand him, and whenever there’s more than five people in the room, Charles feels the terror constantly flowing in the back of his mind rise higher like a black wave threatening to engulf him, and he can’t help but want to get lost in it, although to calm it or to just forget himself, he’s not too sure. It’s even more obvious during the parties Mother holds, where he stands alone in a corner and tries to see things with only his own eyes, forces himself not to speak in everyone’s mind to whisper a tiny chain of _don’thatemei’mharmlessiwon’thurtyouipromisepromisepromisebemyfriendplease?_ He knows he slips sometimes, when Lord Sinclair Junior looks at him with confused eyes, and the terror climbs up another notch, making it all the more difficult to keep out of their heads.

 

Mother starts getting drunk right after the appetizers, then during appetizers, then _before_ appetizers, and Charles fills the hole she leaves in his head and chest with all the love he has for Raven.

 

 **ooooooooooo**

 

Charles is nine and terrified on the couch as he watches the TV reports about the fights between Humans and Mutants in Brazil.

 

Mother is drunk in the next room and desperately praying he won’t come and destroy her mind in her sleep, and Charles stomps down the tiniest voice asking him if he’s sure he’ll _really_ manage to make fear disappear from the world.

 

He settles himself in three years old Raven’s peaceful dreams to force himself to squash the fear down… he knows trying not to give her nightmare is the only way he has to control his mind properly for now.

 

 **ooooooooooo**

 

Charles is ten when Mother becomes Mrs. Kurt Marko.

 

He holds Raven in his arms for the whole of the ceremony, huddled in the farthest back corner, and ignores Mother’s blurry gaze or Marko’s thoughts of _moneyluxuryfoodwinecars_ in favor of responding to Raven’s small voice whispering ‘Saaaaa’l, I’m hung’y!’ in his ears. The wedding is silent, stern, almost, and Cain Marko is by Mother’s side, presents the wedding rings and escorts her down the aisle and Charles _hates_ him so much, _hates_ both of them, because they’re here stealing what’s supposed to be _his_ , Mother’s love and Father’s home and his books and wine and _everything_. Most of all though, he _hates_ Mother with _burning_ passion because she’s not only letting them, she’s _loving them_ for taking everything away from Charles, even if Cain is Different too. Charles realizes now it’s not the fact that he’s a Mutant that disturbed Mother: he was just the wrong kind of different and, seriously, how unfair is that, uh?

 

Hate burns at his side for the whole day and well into the night as he lays in Raven’s nursery, listening to the incessant chatter of minds and gossips and champagne glass clinking against one another, until Charles takes the deepest breath he’s ever taken and simply _pushes_ hate away and almost doesn’t notice when thoughts of Mother are set aside at the same time.

 

 **ooooooooooo**

 

Charles is twelve when the belt buckle hits his right arm for the very first time.

 

It’s a fancy buckle with double crooks and it leaves neat parallel blood marks on his pale, pale skin, and when the scream leaves his mouth, Charles spares a second to be very glad he managed to send Raven in pension despite her screaming and cursing at him with such a foul mouth he wasn’t really sure she was really only just five at the time. It doesn’t matter though, because now she’s away, she’s beyond his reach –or maybe he made sure not to reach for her, he’s not sure either and she doesn’t mention his absence later anyways- and she can’t hear him scream his throat raw, can’t see him try to swallow up painful tear as the Butler gently lays a pack of ice on his eyes and inadvertently teaches him a few Spanish curses. Charles is grateful that Raven isn’t there to see this, or the parties Marko throws three nights a week and forces Charles to attend instead of leaving him to complete his homework. Charles wishes he weren’t so terrified of crowds that he can’t control his power correctly when there’s too much people, so he could go in Pension too and not have to watch as Lord Sainclair and his friends are too terrified of Cain to even try to speak to Charles, even if sometimes they look like they’d like to.

 

Charles watches the parties and scowls, bracing himself for the beating that will inevitably come after Mother, who is continuously drunk now, complains to her husband. He relishes the days he has to spend in the Hunting Pavilion afterwards but makes a show of hating it, just so he’s sure it won’t be taken away from him.

 

 **ooooooooooo**

 

Charles is fourteen when Mother dies and Kurt Marko becomes regent of the Xaviers’ fortune.

 

He gets beaten more often, gets locked in the Pavilion more often, too. It’s almost enough to make him wish for the beatings if it means he gets three days away from the Markos. He seethes constantly to see them bathe in all the wealth and luxury and fame that should have been Father’s, that _would_ have been Father’s had he not needed to take his Mutant son with him to Derry. Charles doesn’t feel guilty for being what he is, and he’s been living with his fear of the world for long enough now that he can keep his anger at it in relative check, but he can’t –doesn’t want to- push the resentment and anger and hate and _terror_ he feels toward the Markos down in the darkest recesses of his mind. He keeps taking the beatings, because it’s part of his contract with Kurt: no mind-changing, no protest, and Raven stays unhurt and unaware. Charles has read enough law books by now to know he can’t do anything right now: there is no Children Protection laws for Mutants, he can’t take Raven with him until he’s of age and on top of that, he won’t be able to access his Father’s fortune if he’s not living on the family grounds and Marko doesn’t renounces his rights to regency.

 

Charles takes everything in, lets Cain make fun of his lithe frame and his poor boxing skills and his excellence in sissy’s sports like fencing, ballroom dancing or riding, lets him make fun of Charles’ evident appreciation for clear cut male bodies and Lord Sainclair’s blonde locks and good looks. Charles shuts up and starts planning how exactly he is going to be retrieving what should have been his all along once he’s of age.

 

 **ooooooooooo**

 

By the time Charles turns eighteen, he’s gained a few pounds, a bit of muscles –nothing like Cain’s, but still- a good inch and the souvenir of more bruises than anyone should ever have to sport, but a thankfully small number of scars, considering.

 

He’s managed to learn how to avoid the beatings, though he still gets locked in the Pavilion a lot –he likes those time away from the Mansion and everything it holds more and more. He knows now that the surest way to avoid getting hit is to keep quiet, keep invisible, and he’s managed to find control on that too, keeping out of people’s head, shoulders straight, neck rigid and gaze distant but mind tucked safely in his own head, not alerting anyone of his power. It’s been hard to manage the skill, but Charles is _finally_ able to block other minds out of his and vice versa.

He thinks he should be worried that he learned how to kill before he learned how to protect himself, but he decides not to dwell about it too much, especially not now Raven has to attend the party as well, cute in white dress and freckles pink skin, but not as adorable as she is in blue scales and yellow eyes. She’s eleven now, and old enough to perceive the hurtful intent behind words like _faggot_ or _sissy_ , old enough to feel indignation on Charles behalf because for all that he _hates_ the Markos and fears the world, Charles still somehow managed to teach her acceptance and discussion first. He watches her try to talk their stepbrother off and, when Cain slaps her to the ground, he lunges at the brute’s throat without second thoughts, pulling him into memories of endless beatings and bruises and bloody belt buckles an easy feat for a mind like Charles’.

Later, when he is locked in the Pavilion for the next three weeks and he can still feel Cain’s fear clinging to him, Charles comes to the horrifying conclusion that he’s becoming exactly what he spent the better part of his life. He doesn’t know how to stop it though, and the only solution he can find to protect Raven from following his footsteps is to withdraw from her head completely, wrench his mind back to his own skull and ignore the way she yells and curses at him in four different languages, five if you count Sindarin.

 

Charles is eighteen and alone in his own mind for the very first time ever, yet none of the horrors he’s seen are gone, worse: they’re mirrored in his head and actions, and he finds it absolutely disgusting and terrifying to look at.

He’s not sure he should ever come out of the Pavilion he’s come to consider as his real home, the only place he won’t get hurt.

 

 **ooooooooooo**

 

He chooses the farthest University he can think of for his first year, which is how he finds himself studying psychology in Oxford. He’s not particularly interested in the field –he’s got tons of firsthand knowledge about human psychology, thank you- but he figures it can’t hurt to have another perspective on this kind of things. He takes philosophy because he needs to hear exactly how wrong he is, needs to find out exactly how twisted he’s become, if only to know what degree of horrible he’s reached.

 

He keeps his differences discreet, doesn’t read minds and makes sure to be suitably flirtatious with girls… it’s not that the idea of sex hasn’t made its appeal known to him yet –he’s had enough wet dream about that damned Brett Sinclair to show him exactly how interesting it can be- it’s just that despite his interest, he can’t bring himself to date anyone. Because, you see, when you try dating someone, it means they’ll ask questions, questions you’ll have to answer with either a lie or the truth. Charles never lies, but he doesn’t want to tell the truth either, and his mind keeps associating one night stands with that old man in front of the school long ago, so they’re out of the question, and Charles remains painfully celibate.

 

It’s hard, keeping himself hidden, keeping what he is discreet, but not only is the situation for Mutants here even worse than it is back in New York, he’s found a way to have people not shut him out on first meeting and he’s honestly not brave enough to cut himself from that.

 

 **ooooooooooo**

 

He meets Moira at one of the parties he’s been forcing himself to attend so he can blend in more easily, and it feels like salvation.

 

For all Charles heard about good deeds and trust and immediate affection, he’s almost never been on the receiving end of it. There’s Raven, of course, but things aren’t the same since he withdrew from her head and she forbade him to ever enter it again in retaliation, and Dad was too short lived to really manage to prevent anything, no matter how hard he tried.

In comparison of what glimpses of faraway candles behind windows Charles has been given all his life, Moira’s instant friendship and willingness to include him in her fun shine like a beacon of hope in Charles’ chest. He follows her in the maze of student partying and learns kindness, friendship, trust, sincere flirtation, he learns camaraderie and solidarity, learns acceptance, too: acceptance of his reluctance to share his past, acceptance of his homosexuality, acceptance of his mutation, separately for most of the time, though Moira and a handful of others accept the three items with heartwarming readiness.

 

Charles keeps the true extent of his power secret though, and lets them all believe he’s harmless, only able to speak in their minds.

 

 **ooooooooooo**

 

Moira knows more than the others, and she’s still his friend, still trusts him, never once imagines he could do anything to her she doesn’t consent to, and it’s the best thing that ever happened to Charles. She makes him remember that people can love and help and trust and welcome and heal, and it feels better than anything, almost as good and precious and mysterious as the souvenirs of Raven’s tiny mind growing daily against his.

 

Moira takes Charles in libraries from which he come back unscathed and demonstrates that he can get drunk without ending up a drunkard, she shows him there are things to be done before killing and hurting, like parading in the street in rainbow colored attire –though it sounds a bit stupid, when you put it like that- and she proves that all assaults are not ill-intentioned –like that time she practically manhandles him into having a date with a friend of a friend of hers and uses the time to fill his wardrobe with the most ridiculous garments she can find.

Moira even reminds him his powers can be _fun_ , and even though he yells at her and calls her a bitch at first, he realizes afterward that she was right: Mutants powers _can_ be fun, provided everyone abides by the rules. It doesn’t stop him from trying his damnedest not to use his, but it is enough to make him realize Moira managed to put him mostly back on acceptable tracks.

 

He still hates Kurt Marko with all he is worth, but he’s starting to think maybe he’ll manage not to make a bloody mess of him next time he sees him.

 

 **ooooooooooo**

 

Charles wishes he could love Moira like she loves him, but all matters of gender set aside, Charles really isn’t sure he can manage that level of unaltered trust and affection. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t deserve it either.

 

 **ooooooooooo**

 

The weekend after his twenty first birthday, Charles flies back to Westchester.

 

He’s been planning this day since he was fourteen, and he’s determined enough that it is ridiculously easy to put the whole of the household to sleep when he arrives at the Mansion. He doesn’t even spare time to be surprised at the lack of effort it takes to keep twenty five minds under his control, doesn’t even wonder at the brusque certainty that he can manage twice as much if he trains hard enough, simply singles out Kurt Marko and forces him to come down the great staircases and inside the priceless Jaguar that was Mother’s and became Marko’s favorite.

Charles hates him enough that he keeps the control purely physical, nearly ashamed to relish the thrum of fear and frustrated helplessness coming off his second stepfather as he forces him to step up the stairs to the Clerk’s office with a smile on his face. The papers are signed in a matter of minutes, and then it’ the drive back to the Mansion, and time to set things straight.

 

“I could kill you right now,” Charles tells Marko, “I could wipe your mind blank or make you think you’re a baboon ‘till the end of your days, I could make you feel and do anything I wanted, but I won’t. You and your Neanderthal son will remain safe so long as you keep away from my family, away from _my_ house. One wrong word, one wrong move, and I’ll report Cain as an unregistered Mutant… for starters. If you so much as _try_ to contest the documents you just signed or contact me or Raven ever again, Marko, whatever your reasons, if you do, I _swear_ I will make you life a living hell.”

 

Charles sees horror painting itself on the now free facial features and surprises himself by feeling relieved he doesn’t need to kill the man right there and then –he’s already done it, after all, and he didn’t expect to be reluctant to do it again- but his threats are far from idle. Charles prides himself on holding true to his word, and he knows he _can_ put his word to execution. Still, he finds himself wishing he won’t have to. Even more surprising, he feels glad that he doesn’t want to kill that man immediately, just for the heck of it. Charles drives them back to the Mansion. Once they’re there, he wakes everyone up and gives them twelve hours to pack and be gone, wipes the questions out of the minds where they pop.

He watches Marko take off with his son in the empty Jaguar, satisfied in the knowledge the only thing he let the man take with him is the only thing he couldn’t possibly want to keep after today’s event.

 

The Butler passes him a lighter when he walks past him, and Charles just now realizes how much he needed it.

 

 **ooooooooooo**

 

It takes the rest of Saturday night and the whole of Sunday for Charles to transfer what he wants to keep for himself and the whole of Raven’s belonging into the Hunting pavilion.

 

When he’s done and the small building looks like an overstuffed warehouse, he goes to the library and sets all of Kurt’s economics books and Cain’s porn magazines in a pile under the velvet curtain and he brings the lighter to the dry paper.

He is long gone by the time anyone notices smoke coming up from the Mansion. The police gets nothing when they try to interrogate the former Domestics, and the Markos have disappeared anyways.

 

Charles assures them he doesn’t want to press charges, really, it’s not like the Mansion was a big part of my fortune, after all.

 

 **ooooooooooo**

 

He goes back to Oxford on Monday and crawls into bed immediately with an ice pack on his head, curtains closed, and he can’t bring himself to go out for the next two days.

 

When Moira finally manages to cajole him out of his bedroom, Charles declines the offer of nightclub and spectacular hangover and suggests a quiet movie night instead. Moira agrees, feeling more than she knows that this weekend back home didn’t quite turn out all right for Charles. She cooks him his favorite dish –a French sauté of rice, onions and lard- and lets him cling to her throughout the night. He thanks her when he wakes up, but refuses to tell her exactly what happened.

 

Truth be told, he doesn’t think he’ll ever find someone he can tell this to.

 

 **ooooooooooo**

 

Several years later, Charles sits on his small couch in his dear old Hunting Pavilion and asks Erik: _I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable. Earlier. When I…._

 _Kissed me?_ Erik projects along with a silent chuckle, long fingers wrapped around his coffee mug and ankles softly tangling with Charles’ _Not at all. In fact, I would rather enjoy it if you decided to do it again. I’m just not sure I’m the man you need._

 _Really? And why is that, pray tell?_

 _I’m not breaking any news by saying I’ve got issues, Charles. Serious issues._

 _Oh Erik,_ Charles snorts quietly as he sets his tea aside and rests his head on Erik’s shoulder, arms wrapped around the mechanic’s waist. _I’m a telepath. Trust me when I say I can handle your issues, my friend._

 

Erik sets his coffee aside and turns to get a better look at Charles face. The telepath sneaks a peak in his head to see himself through Erik’s eyes and he sees the harsh lines of fatigue, the sunken blue eyes, the determined angle of his mouth. It’s been a long time since he saw his face as unnaturally tired and worn-out rather than the way it just is. It’s refreshing and disturbing at the same time.

 

 _Tell you what,_ Charles says, _when we’ve got time off from trying to change the world and we’re both willing to, we can both try and fix each other’s issues if we so wish. Deal?_

 _Do we_ need _to make a deal out of that?_ Erik mind-sighs, and Charles takes a moment to appreciate his considerable talents at projecting before he says, smugly:

 _In some culture, you seal a deal with a kiss._

 

Erik doesn’t say ‘deal’ but he laughs as he leans into Charles for their second kiss, and Charles thinks maybe someday he’ll tell him.

 

 

One thing people have trouble remembering, or accepting at least, is that babies’ minds in their primary days aren’t much more than any fly or frog. At the beginning, all minds are blank, save the regular, continuous string of _fooddrinksleep_ , blank pages the world has to fill, one word after the other to form sentences, paragraphs, chapters, up until the very end of the book. Sometimes the book is long and rich and stylish, other times it is short and bright and witty.

 

And other times, somewhere in the middle, you realize –often when the moment is long lived and gone- as you open a brand new, promising chapter of your life, that you needed to burn the book to be able to properly turn a page and start anew.


End file.
